


The Height of Trees

by mintboy (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 16:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14877230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mintboy
Summary: On a night when he feels distant from himself and the world around him, Dave imagines he's far, far away.





	The Height of Trees

It’s five to ten at night when I get home.

I don’t go out often. I don’t really have anywhere to go; the city is big, but everything feels so far away. Not physically; it’s hard to describe. I look into the buildings as I walk down the streets; the stores, the restaurants. The people inside feel like they aren’t part of my world. They smile and laugh and speak in all these different voices, and it’s not that I don’t feel happy sometimes, it’s that their voices blend into each other, and their gazes at me feel so cold. There’s a distance between me and the rest of the world, and I’m not sure why. I don’t know if ever will.

The hallway into the apartment is covered in that red carpet with the circles on it, like in hotels. It hides the stains, I guess. I find my eyes following the shapes, following them up into the cracks in the striped wallpaper. The door is shut. I don’t want to open it. I rub my hands together. It’s still pretty hot out; not as hot as it was during the day, but hot enough that my hands feel sticky. The heat in on my face makes me feel dirty. I push up my glasses. I won’t be able to see with the lights off inside.  

I put my hand on the knob. It’s unlocked. It always is. I know that. I twist it and push open the door. Slipping inside, I close it behind me, fast and then slow, so it doesn’t make a sound.

The apartment is dark, but the fuzzy sound of static cloaks my footsteps, and a blue light illuminating the room. The TV is on. I stop and glance over at the screen. It’s some kind of documentary, but it’s muted. A family stands in a forest of some kind, staring up at the trees.

It smells bad. The remote is on the floor. A hand hangs off the side of the couch. I don’t need to look any closer. I slide across the wall to my room, closing the door behind me.

It’s darker, except for the light coming in from the window. It makes an eerie, red square on the floor. The sky doesn’t turn black at night; there’s too much light here. It turns a sickly red-brown, laced with clouds I shouldn’t be able to see. There are no stars. I shuck off my jeans, sitting down on my bed. My legs stick to the sheets.

It smells like sleep in the room – like when it’s too hot for the scent of your sweat to fade away, even with the window open. I pick up a water bottle on the table beside my bed, which is less of a table and more of a wooden panel supported by cinder blocks. I take a sip. It’s warm, and tastes like plastic. I swish the water in front of my face, and the bubbles sticking to the side of the bottle wash away. Laying back on my bed, I drop the bottle next to me, closing my eyes.

I picture a forest. It smells different – like freshly washed clothes, or lavender, or the way a park in the city smells on a cool day. The trees stretch up into the sky, like the kind in the TV-documentary. Higher than I’ve ever seen before. I try to imagine the family next to me. The father’s hand on my shoulder. I can’t. I crinkle up my face, raise my hands and press them onto my eyes, and try to think harder.

From outside the open window, I hear sirens and cars speeding by. I hear the sounds of laughs and other voices, bleeding up to my room. I can’t focus. I can never focus.

I open my eyes and stare at the white ceiling. I try to imagine silence that isn’t tainted by passersby, TV static, or the pattering of a broken fan. I try to imagine the silence of the forest. Nothing comes to mind.

With a sigh, I stand, rubbing my eyes. It’s late but I’m not tired – not really. I often feel tired but so awake. My eyes ache and my body is overcome by a tense, shaky feeling, but my mind buzzes. I go to the door, stopping at the sound of shuffling outside my door. The knob starts to turn, but flicks back within a second. The footsteps return, getting quieter, and I hear the couch creak. The noise on the TV comes back. David Attenborough’s voice echoes through the hallway for a second, but it is drowned out suddenly by music and the yelling of some Food Network chef. I take a deep breath and open the door. Pinks, reds, blues, and greens dance across the walls, like pyrotechnics reflected against the plaster.

I move down the hall quietly, and hear movement in the other room. I freeze, tensing up. The sound on the TV gets louder. I keep walking, slipping into the bathroom and locking the door behind me, closing it fast and then slow.

I take a deep breath, pressing my palms into either side of the sink. I look up at my face. It’s dark, but the light from the window paints spots on my skin. I flick on the light, which flickers before it comes on. There’s no fan.

I look back at myself. There are discolored bags under my eyes. Blemishes dot my cheeks, and white marks outline my chapped lips. I lick them instinctively. Sunburn has turned me an ugly pink color, and the peeling skin is bunched in patches down the sides of my face from being picked.

I raise my hand up, tracing little scars that split in dull lines across my visible skin. There’s a deep, pink one that falls into my upper lip. Instinctively, I push in with my dull nails, though it does nothing.

I look into my own eyes and they feel disconnected. I recognize myself, but don’t at the same time. I swallow something building in my throat, feeling my lips tremble. I shake my head, pushing my hands into my hair.

“No,” I murmur, wiping my eyes. I look back up at myself, trying to force the feelings away. I don’t know what they are, and I don’t want to. My eyes are glassy, and I turn around, letting myself sink down to the floor. I glance up at the counter for a second, spotting my phone laying there.

I feel tempted. I’d say I don’t know what I’m tempted, but I do. I get onto my knees, reaching up. My hands are shaky. I grab my phone, feeling around for my headphones. They’re wet from being by the sink and tangled up. I slide back down, pulling at the earbuds until they untangle, before plugging them in. I unlock my phone, letting my finger hover over the keypad. Something is telling me not to do anything. I’m not sure what it is. Still, slowly, I press down, swallowing again and clenching my teeth as I type in the number. The dial tone rings in my ears, and I turn down the volume. I pull the microphone up to my lips, curling up so my chin touches my knees.

“Hello?” Karkat’s voice is muffled by static. Everything is always muffled by static. What’s real around here?

“Hey,” I murmur, “it’s late.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” he scoffs, pausing, and his voice grows quieter – more concerned, “. . .everything alright?”

I don’t know how to reply. I lower my head a little.

“It’s okay to be upset,” Karkat says, and I let out an amused breath. I rub my left eye with my free hand, feeling the hot tears on my fingers. I won’t let them go. We’re both quiet for a minute, but it’s an uncomfortable silence.

I break it.

“. . .Have you been to a forest? Like, a real one,” I ask, quietly, murmuring into the microphone on my earbuds.

“What do you mean, a ‘real one’?”

“Like . . . on TV. Where you’re alone with the trees.”

 “Yeah, why?”

“Tell me about it,” I close my eyes.

There’s a pause, a deep breath on the other side of the line.

“It’s quiet, but never too quiet. You can hear birds, singing – little ones, so high up you can’t see them. You can hear water trickling, and you think maybe there’s a stream somewhere, but you don’t know. You hear the wind rustling through the trees, and you hear your footsteps. They crunch, because there are leaves, grass, and sticks under your feet.

It’s dark because the trees are tall and the sky is hidden by leaves, but the sunlight comes through in patches. It makes spots on the ground, projecting the shapes of the spaces in between the leaves onto the dirt. Everything is green, greener than anything else, ever.

It smells like there’s never been a person there before. Like there’s no smoke, no gas, no grime, not even sweat. Just like the world is supposed to be. It might smell like water, too, but not the kind in bottles or in the tap. Like . . . a fresh scent. It bites your nose and makes your skin feel clean.”

I press my hand over my mouth. My cheeks feel hot; I didn’t even realize I had started crying. My shoulders shake and I try to swallow the thickness in my throat, but it won’t go away. My head hurts and my eyes burn.

“It’s okay,” Karkat murmurs, “it’s okay, I promise.”

I let my phone drop on the cheap, knotted tub mat, wrapping my arms around myself and crying into my sleeves, every sound I make muffled by fabric and static and everything unnatural. Maybe, far away, the noise would fade into the heights of forest trees, but all I can see in my head are pixels and the colors reflected over the green on the silver screen. There’s a hard knock on the door. I press my face harder into my arms. I need to be quiet.

“You’re okay,” Karkat whispers, and I imagine him speaking over the rustling of leaves, but all I hear is static.

**Author's Note:**

> Took a quick break from writing the next chapter of "Sun" to write this. It's titled from the song "The Height of Trees" by the Kite String Tangle. I recommend it - and the whole album, actually. 
> 
> Much love to you,  
> mintboy


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